


Cards on the Table

by jendavis



Series: Writing on the Wall [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, I like how Fix-It works as a pun here, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Pre-Slash, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 20:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20588747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: Ben had kissed Bev, and it had brought her back from the deadlights.  Eddie tries the same thing with Richie.  Richie comes out of it knowing how to kill it, and knowing that he'd just seen Eddie die.He's kind of a mess.  It's kind of Eddie's fault.





	Cards on the Table

The spear kills monsters if he believes it does, but Richie's on the _ground_. His eyes are clouded and white, and it's all Eddie can do to weigh him down and _keep_ him from floating, trying to believe that he can, that he's not about to lose him, that he-

The shouting from the others breaks through the blood pounding in his ears. 

And it worked for Bev, back then, when Ben tried it. 

So he leans down, and kisses him. Worries, for a moment, that he can already register him moving, coming back to himself and whatever _that_ will bring, but he's _moving_, that's what's important. 

And then he's being shoved off to the side, too mortified to be afraid, even when Richie, staggering to his feet, grabs his arm and _pulls_. 

Richie's shouting, "_I know how to kill it_," and trying to get to the others, and Eddie's just so _glad_ that he hasn't let him go that he's not about to spoil it by saying _anything_. 

\--- 

Apparently, they just have to make It believe that it's small, that it's weak. 

And if there's one thing Derry's shown them- each one of them, deep down and thoroughly- it's how to feel that way, and how to make someone else feel that way, too. They chant until the clown is tiny, childlike, nearly boneless and cowering under their chants. They squeeze It's heart until it crumbles to ash, and Eddie won't let himself wonder if this means they've become monsters, too. 

But they've won.

\--- 

Jumping off a cliff has never been this easy or fun. 

They wash off in the lake, a weird combination of exhilarated and quiet. Like they're trying to recapture the good times, because each of them already has their eyes on the door. 

Mike breaks off first, saying he's got to head home, then see about making good with the Chinese restaurant. Back at the hotel, Bill's on the phone to his wife before they even pull into the hotel parking lot. Ben's making eyes at Bev, but she's looking back at him, now, and not seeing anything else. 

Eddie'd kind of figured it would just be him and Richie, at the end- that's how it used to be, he remembers. But Richie's been dead silent, ever since the Barrens, and he's already taking the stairs back up to his room, two at a time. 

And it's that want- Eddie _wants_ to go after him- that has him remembering, oh, _yeah_. 

He's got to call Myra. 

\--- 

He's showered, changed his bandages, changed clothes. He's raided the vending machine for a granola bar and a bottle of water, and he's called Myra, made apologies, and asked for a divorce. 

Hanging up, he's not sure that was the wisest choice. He should've waited until the adrenaline wore off. Waited until he could've gotten back to her to speak face to face- she doesn't deserve this, a phone call on top of just running off on her. The two of them have been making the wrong kind of sense for years. Their respective crazies have fit like puzzle pieces so perfectly for so long that even if the full picture is kind of ugly, it's been _theirs_, and it's not right, just deciding to knock it over onto the floor on his own like this. 

He could've at least waited until his next therapist's appointment before pulling the trigger, though from where he's standing, he almost wants to laugh at the idea. His appointment with Emma's on Thursday; he's only got five days to figure out how the hell he's going to explain _Derry_ to her.

He's got one or two days, maybe, to figure out how to sweep up and sort and separate all the pieces with Myra back at the condo. 

And less than that, probably, to check in on whatever else he might've been shattered in the meantime. 

\--- 

Before Eddie even musters up the nerve to knock, Richie's opening the door, duffel bag over his shoulder. His car keys are already in his hand. 

"So... Guess that's a no for the big celebration dinner, then?" 

"No. I mean. Was just going to throw this shit in the car." It's a lie, but Richie's relenting, stepping back, giving him room to enter. His hotel room is like Eddie's in perfect reverse, only it doesn't have them both standing around like guilty puppets with their strings cut. 

"So," Eddie pretends that the worry isn't there. "How're you doing?"

_This kills monsters if you believe it does_. 

"Good!" Richie springs into action, tossing his bag on the dresser and continuing on to the small round table by the window. It's getting late, looks like rain outside, but he doesn't turn the light on as he sits down. "How's your cracked mug?"

It takes a second to remember the gash on his face; it pulls and stings when he grins, and he thinks he can taste blood. 

"Still prettier'n yours."

"You always were the cute one," Richie teases, stretching his arms over his head. 

Mirroring him- _God_, his back is stiff- Eddie's foot slips on something underfoot. Reaching down, he finds a disheveled newspaper and picks it up to get it out of the way. 

It's from today. Front page has an article about someone being charged with a hate crime. He'd heard about the attack on the radio on the drive in, and shut it off, already too on edge to listen to bad news. When he looks up from the headlines, Richie's eyes are locked onto the table, like they all probably used to do whenever the teachers asked questions they weren't sure how to answer. 

"You see this?"

He nods. 

"Anyone you know?"

"What- how the fuck should I know?" Richie snorts, surprisingly vehement. "I haven't been back here since I left."

"You think it was connected?"

"Fuck, I don't know." He stands up, taking the newspaper as he passes, and tosses it into the garbage can by the dresser. "Just seems like good ol' run-of-the-mill Derry to me. Can't wait to get the fuck out of here."

"Yeah, well, Bev's got reservations at the Seagull at seven for all of us. At least wait until then before you do, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah." His eyes narrow, though, and he smirks. "That why you here? She have visions of me bolting, send you to intervene?"

"No, she just, don't you check your messages? Anyway, I just came here to apologize. For earlier."

Glancing up from the phone he's just now realizing is dead, Richie just looks confused. "About?"

"The whole kissing you without consent thing?"

Instantly, Richie's spine goes rigid, and he draws himself up to his full height, even if his arms are tight against his sides. "What are you talking about?"

"Down there. You were caught in the deadlights," he says, more easily than he'd figured it'd come, but then, apparently today's the _day_ for that kind of thing. "Was trying to snap you out of it, but you weren't waking up, and I was freaking out and... yeah."

Richie's hand has gone to his neck, his eyes to the floor. His mouth twists, uncertain. And definitely, uncomfortable. "Like, on the mouth? Or..."

"Yeah," he says, smirking because he can hide hurt as well as the next guy. "I full on Sleeping Beauty-d your gangly ass."

Richie's eyes flash up at him, sharply confused. "What about all the germs?"

And Eddie blinks. Of _course_ that would be the takeaway he'd get from this whole thing. 

_Twelve years of therapy for the hypochondria alone_, he almost says, _And I've been married and it's weird, but I've managed all that and more, you fucking asshole_. 

But Eddie's got forty years' experience when it comes to assessing and managing risk. He's so good at it that Fortune 500 Companies pay him a lot of money to do just that. So when he looks at Richie now, so clearly uncomfortable, he knows how to handle it. Risk, when it comes to Richie, is best managed with jokes.

"Yeah well, your mouth was probably the cleanest thing down there." 

"That's a fucking first," Richie says, but he's laughing and his shoulders have lost some of their edge and he's almost kind of beautiful, again. But Richie being Richie, he's quick to cover it up. "And speaking of firsts, you _do_ realize we we were all covered in all sorts of shit. Gray water, dirt, ashes of dead _kids_ and thirty years of It's dead skin cells," he cuts himself off with a frown, shaking his head. "Does It even have real skin? I mean, like normal people, animals, living things that obey the laws of physics? Whatever. His evil debitage, whatever the fuck it was, swirling around in there for decades. In the _air_-"

"Beep beep," Eddie says, both to shake off the old familiar nerves winding themselves up, and to get Richie to _focus_. It works, to his surprise, but then it's on him to speak. "All I remember is that you were catatonic. Wasn't really paying attention to the rest of it. Wasn't really thinking, just thought, well, it worked for Ben and Beverly, you know?" It's a risk saying it. Richie's as capable at drawing parallels as he is, but if Eddie's theory is right, that might be the entire problem, here. "Just didn't want you to die, is all."

"Better me than you," Richie says, with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, and Eddie doesn't know what to say, so it's only the shake of his head that Richie interrupts as he retreats to the chair. "I'm serious. _Lived_ it, remember?"

"No," he says, skin tingling, the verge of old familiar panic surfacing again. "I mean, I know you did, but. The deadlights... I don't know _what_ you remembered." 

In the wake of his words, Richie goes slack. His silence goes on long enough that if not for his eyes, darting up to him every few minutes, Eddie could believe him to be in some kind of waking coma. 

"You really want to know?"

"Yeah."

"You died," Richie eventually says, accusation giving way to monotone. "I remember, you pulled me down, I think, but I remember coming to, and trying to figure out why I was lying down on the ground in the cave with you all up in my face. Then _It_ got you. We dragged you out of the way, tried to get you out, but. You didn't make it." And there, right _there_, Richie's calm is punctuated by a sharp inhalation. He's cutting himself off from saying more. 

Eddie doesn't want to ask, but he doubts he'll have the nerve to try once he's slept and the adrenaline's worn off. "And _then_ what?"

Richie looks at him, suddenly. _Through_ him, sharp and blank, all at once, like he's not really seeing him. 

He can't remember seeing that expression on his face- not as kids, not as adults. Richie'd always been the _fuck you_ sort of brave Eddie'd only wished he could emulate. And yeah, maybe Eddie'd always just seen what he'd wanted to, in his face, but it'd been there even today. Barely clear of the deadlights, in the moment between one terror and the next, Richie'd been scared and angry, hanging onto Eddie's arms like he'd never let go, shouting like he could yell it all down. And for an instant, Eddie's old habits had come back to him again, and he'd believed, for a minute, that Richie probably could.

So this quiet, it's unsettling. 

"What do you mean, and _then_ what?" Richie finally says. "Fuck, Eddie, there _wasn't_ a then. You bled out from the giant fucking _wound_ in your chest."

"I know, I died, whatever. After that, though, what happened."

"I just said," Richie's annoyance is starting to tick over into anger. "There _wasn't_ a fucking _after_."

"You just, what, woke up?"

There's a pause. "Yeah."

"'Cause Beverly said... she said she saw things. Like, _future_ things."

Richie pushes himself up out of his seat, goes to his bag and drags out a bottle. "Like Stanley."

"Yeah."

Richie heads towards the sink, grabs the individually wrapped plastic cups from the tray next to the one-cup coffee maker. "I didn't have anything like that." He unwraps one, then holds up the other for Eddie's nod before unwrapping it as well, and pouring two measures of whiskey. "Want ice?"

Yes, but if he goes out for ice, he's probably not coming back any time soon. "I'm good." He takes the drink when it's offered, and when Richie taps their rims together, the cups crinkle instead of clink.

Eddie sips his. Notices, when he looks, that Richie's already downed his and is already refilling his cup. His hands are shaking but not hesitating, and Eddie can't help wondering how many times Richie's gone through these exact motions in his life outside of Derry. 

"You didn't have anything like that," Eddie says, once Richie's finished his second. "But there was something else, wasn't there?"

"Yeah. Town threw us a parade. Bill got the key to the city," Richie bites out the joke, then sighs, sitting down again. "Why's there _gotta_ be something else? We got out. You're alive, everyone's fine."

He can see him contemplating the bottle again. "You're not."

"Fuck, Eddie..."

"No, I mean it. I mean, all this?" He gestures at the room, at the sad sight of Richie's duffel bag, sitting on the dresser by the door. "We _won_ and it's all good, but you're so far out of your head you can't even make jokes and it's freaking me the fuck out."

Richie drags a hand over his face, then looks at him, glaring and finally goaded for the _fuck you_. "All right, you want to know what I saw in the lights? We won, yeah, but you died. I had a nervous fucking _breakdown_ in front of fucking everyone in the Barrens- that was fun, four stars, not to be missed- then took a manic spin through the old haunts on my way out of town like that wouldn't just dig the knife in deeper, and the last thing I remember was knowing that I was heading back towards absolutely _nothing_." Richie laughs, all hollowed out. "So yeah. It pretty sucked donkey balls, so if my jokes are falling flat, well, it's not like I ever wrote my own to begin with."

"You don't write your own jokes?"

Richie blinks at him, confused. Because Richie is not the only one here locking onto the most minor details at the worst times.

"Since when?"

"Since ever." Richie shrugs, clearly latching onto the change of subject like a lifeline. "Maria Santiago and Chuck Alderman, they're credited on my specials."

"Never watched them," Eddie shrugs, realization coming just a second too late. "Not really. Think I caught one of them for a few minutes." 

But it's not exactly true. He'd been flipping channels, landing on Comedy Central for a minute, drawn by the laughter of the audience. Then the man on the stage- weirdly beautiful, somehow- had opened his mouth, started launching into a joke, and Eddie's hand had flown to the remote, shutting it off. It had been a visceral, horrified reaction to only one or two words. He'd almost remembered Richie, right then, and he'd buried him all over again, like instinct. And now Richie's sitting across the table from him, looking absolutely fucking _done_ with life. 

"Think I'll have to track it down again, when I get back."

Groaning, at least Richie's smiling again. "Please don't. It's all awful."

"Yeah, well, aren't you artist types all supposed to be your own harshest critic?"

"_Artists_, maybe, but..." Richie pours himself another whiskey, but doesn't down it this time. "No. Seriously. It's all just, you know, the usual obnoxious stuff. Nothing you haven't heard a thousand times, and it's..."

Eddie frowns. The usual obnoxious stuff is exactly what he thinks he needs, right now. "It's what?"

"I dunno. Phony."

"Then maybe you _do_ need to start writing your own jokes."

"Great plan, let's watch what's left of my career crash and burn." But then he starts to relent. "Though, fuck it."

"Fuck it?"

Smirking, Richie sits back in his chair, waving his fingers imperiously. "Google me."

Myra's texted half a dozen times since they'd hung up. The beginning stages of their end are all waiting for him behind message previews, running down the lock screen in reverse chronological order. _I'll be at my mother's house so..._ and _This is hard but I think you're..._ and _You could've told..._. 

He unlocks his phone, and searches him out.

He doesn't open any of these links, either. Like the messages from Myra, they tell him enough. _Comedian Melts Down, Exclusive Video_ and _Richie Tozier: Drug Meltdown?_ and the rest. 

"You see any of these?"

Richie nods, almost proudly. "Some asshole at the Post thinks I'm set up to go out like Belushi, so there's that, at least."

"Small victories?"

"Exactly."

"You seem... weirdly okay about it."

"Yeah, well. Perspective. Still might come crashing down when I get back."

He nods, and takes a quick scan through his messages. Myra's okay, she's still mad. He might've been the first to say that he was leaving, but she's the first one to admit that they've probably been heading that way for for a while now. But with Richie's sentiment, he has to agree. "Know how that goes," he says, putting his phone away. "Myra and I are divorcing."

Hearing himself say it out loud for the first time lodges a rock in his gut. It's balanced, almost, by the weight coming off his shoulders. He's not sure whether to laugh or cry. 

"Why?"

"It's been coming for a while now. Me taking off and freaking her out was the final straw."

It's more complicated than that, really. It's the sort of thing that he'll probably be talking through with his therapist for the next several months at least, though the prospect of going back there to pick it all apart is suddenly exhausting- how on Earth is he supposed to even _start_ to explain these last few days- the whole rash of things he remembers, things he _knows_, now, to Emma? 

"Shit." Richie's eyebrows have skated up his forehead. "That's..."

"A relief, mostly." And, knowing exactly what he's setting himself up for, here- and maybe a little bit because he's _hoping_ for it, he explains. "After all that shit when I was a kid, I married my mother."

Richie does a surprisingly good job of trying not to laugh. But his eyes crinkle in the corner, behind his broken glasses. "That that, poor, poor woman."

"Fuck off, Tozier."

"I joke because I care, Eds."

"Uh-huh." But this is better. Lighter than it's been- almost like Eddie'd want, if he'd known, coming here, what that was, and wasn't making it up as he goes alone. "So, what about you? Gotta go back and make amends over a sudden insane road trip to anyone?"

At this, the shutters come down, _hard_. But Richie's still Richie, so he's still grinning, teeth bared wide, eyes squinting more than his glasses require him to. "Haven't exactly found anyone worth inflicting myself on lately." 

Eddie's seen this _exact_ expression on his face more times than he can even remember. Thinks he might've even caused it himself, more than once. But he's not a dumbass kid anymore. He's grown up enough to let his circle of desperate worry spread out to include his friends, even the ones he'd forgotten about for years. "_Inflicting_ yourself, huh?" he says, counting down to the inevitable eye roll before he even finishes speaking. "You a leper or something?"

In response, Richie pulls a monstrous face, tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back in his head and letting out a throaty, wet growl.

"Whatever dude," Eddie says. "Scale of one to ten, I'd kiss you again."

This shuts him up. 

Which is a relief, because now that Eddie's hearing what he's just said, his mind's racing in too many directions at once to fire back anything more. There's the truth of it, which had seemed easy enough in the moment, even when he'd been skeptical about the whole idea of kissing him because even when Ben had kissed Bev free of the deadlights, it had looked kind of like she'd been on her way back all on her own. And in the few moments he'd let himself remember that part- Richie's slack mouth against his, his eyes opening and searching him out, there'd been a split second- no more than a _nanosecond_\- where Richie'd looked _happy_. 

Then he'd sprung to action, rolling them both over, dragging him up to scramble across the cave floor, shouting that they had to _move_, that they needed the others, that he _knew how to kill It_, that Eddie had _told_ him.

Which means there _had_ been, in Richie's recollection of the deadlights, something more than Eddie simply _dying_, end scene. There'd been time, they'd _spoken_, but Richie hasn't told them what they'd _said_, and-

-and Eddie really wants to know why there's this warm flush of hope that's doing battle with the ice in his chest right now. 

Richie is holding his cup down against the table like if he moves his hand, it'll start floating. When he speaks, his tone would probably sound unbothered, if it was coming out as anything other than a hoarse whisper. 

"So... is that between a nine and a ten, then? Or a one and a two?"

The question's hard to parse out over the blood in his own ears and the splintering realization that he knows the answer, he's known the answer ever since Richie shouted at the others to give him room to fix up Ben, back in that alley, maybe even before but it's blurry. 

But he knows- he's _known_ the answer- every time bickering with Richie had distracted him from the things that scared the _hell_ out of him. Every time Richie's bad jokes poked holes in Eddie's monsters, proof of concept against their unassailability. And he'd known the answer wrestling for space in that damned hammock, too busy trying to plant his foot in Richie's face to worry, for once, that they'd been touching at all. 

He'd known the answer before he'd ever imagined the question being _asked_. And now that it's been spoken, now that's it's hanging over their heads, he's afraid all over again. 

He's afraid it'll never be _asked_ again, whether he's ready for it or not; right now, everything's all upside down and backwards, and Richie's the one looking like he's about to throw up. 

_This kills monsters if you believe it does_, Eddie reminds himself, and takes a breath.

"More like an eleven, I think."

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking of a part 2 from Richie's perspective, any interest?


End file.
